The Ghost-Eater and Other Stories by Diane Awerbuck, Louis Greenberg

mag that this was the in colour right now, and left the broekie lace white. They’d bought it a few months after getting married. It had been part of a deceased estate and every cent they’d ever saved went into the deposit. They moved in on a rainy Monday in September, while the southeaster rattled windows and doors. On the first night, when the noise kept them awake, they thought it was the wind. It’s an old house, they told each other as the floorboards creaked and groaned, the cupboard doors slammed and low moans billowed from the ceiling.
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    Fred Mostert was a big man, probably in his early forties, with a beer-and-chops belly and a spietkop moustache that sprouted every which way like an old toothbrush. ‘I think I’ve figured out the problem, ma’am,’ he told her after spending a good hour running a little bleeping gadget over walls, carpets, cupboards and power sockets; pacing up and down her backyard and sticking his fingers in the flower beds while whistling to himself. ‘There’s just one more thing I want to check.’ Crouching next to the swimming pool, he conjured up a collection of sample jars from his bag, and filled them with pool water, followed by three squeezes from a small vial, inside which was a clear liquid that turned the water bright purple. ‘My bliksem … Yes, this is just what I suspected. There seems to be an old slave burial ground underneath your swimming pool.’
    Her lips struggled with the words, ‘A b–burial ground?’
    â€˜Yes, ma’am. Probably around seven or eight spooks, see. Judging by the particular tint of purple of the specimen, I’d say the last body was probably laid to rest here around 1770.’
    â€˜Are you sure? I mean, how can you know?’
    â€˜Well, ma’am, my equipment, you see. This is high-tech stuff. The data never lies. Also, guessing by the bumps all over the ugly mug of that fellow lying behind you on your deck chair, I’d say the smallpox outbreak of 1767 was what did most of these guys in.’
    â€˜Oh.’
    He tugged a notepad from his breast pocket, pulled a pencil from behind his ear and scribbled furiously. ‘Yes, this is going to be quite a job … quite a job. I’ll have to work out a special quote for this one and get back to you. In the meantime, ma’am, whatever you do, don’t tell the council about this. Otherwise you’ll have a whole other level of bureaucratic bullshit on your hands. Slaves are really political right now, you see. Those donners in the government … Next thing you know the press will be at your door and a few months down the line your house is a museum and your swimming pool some kind of memorial. Um, no, we’ll have to keep this one quiet, I think. Strictly an inside job.’
    She led him to the front door. They said their goodbyes and he promised to call. She watched as he squeezed past her azaleas towards his car.
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    Four days later she heard from him again. She was sitting at her desk at work. When she noticed the caller ID, she grabbed the phone and sprinted to the bathroom. ‘Hello,’ she whispered into her BlackBerry as she slipped into an empty cubicle.
    â€˜Hello, ma’am. Fred Mostert here. Is this a bad time?’
    â€˜Uh, no, not at all, I’m just in the … library, that’s all.’
    â€˜Ma’am, I’ve done some calculating and the whole procedure’s going to cost you R6 000 plus R800 for expenses. Considering the high number of spooks we’re dealing with, I’m going to need some extra equipment. I’ve also roped an old friend in the business – she’s quite familiar with the Ou Kaap: the way they did things back then. She also speaks a little bit of Kitchen Dutch, and some of that fancy English of back in the day, so she’ll be able to help us talk to the spooks.’
    â€˜That’s a lot of money.’
    â€˜Yes,